


Chiaroscuro

by seungshibari



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: "Film Students" Han Jisung & Lee Minho, Arson, Character Death, Dark, Deception, Electrocution, Execution, Filming, Fire, Gore, Head Shaving, Horror, M/M, Murder, Snuff, Snuff Films, electric chairs, mentions of animal death, mentions of guns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:49:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26920135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seungshibari/pseuds/seungshibari
Summary: "In cinematography, ‘chiaroscuro’ refers to the extremes of low and high-contrast lighting, [creating] areas of light and darkness."Two of Hyunjin's fingers were coated in shimmery globs of eyeshadow. It was surreal, in the worst way. He had to focus on making forward progress before he dissolved entirely. Staring down at the crumbling asphalt, he thoughtlessly grabbed at what looked like a damp piece of paper, wedged tight in the cracks. He unfolded it - a simple ad, with a phone number at the bottom. And across the top, in a bolder typeface:FILM OPPORTUNITY - LOOKING FOR ACTORSHyunjin could be a movie star. Hyunjin could be anything.
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know, Kim Dongyoung/Hwang Hyunjin
Comments: 29
Kudos: 66





	Chiaroscuro

**Author's Note:**

> I DO NOT give permission for this fic or portions of this fic to be REPRODUCED or REUPLOADED without my express consent.
> 
> please read the tags and disclaimer below before continuing.
> 
> this is an experimental piece. it is a work of horror fiction that contains a graphic depiction of a painful death by electrocution. in the fic, this death is being filmed for what popular culture refers to as a "snuff" film. if the themes and topics contained in this work make you uncomfortable, i ask that you click away.

The club was a total bust. Hyunjin wouldn’t have even bothered to curate a nice outfit if he’d known that there weren’t going to be any hot people there. Even worse, it had begun to rain on his walk home, sheets of it. His sheer, rose-patterned shirt was a poor choice from the start, but now, things were even worse, the material chafing his sensitive nipples. Glitter and water mixed atop his spidery lashes, leaving an unnatural sheen as they streaked his cheeks. 

An oily weeping statue, a Virgin Mary for club kids and sluts everywhere, maybe. In some ways, he could be these things, but tonight he was just a B-list, unfucked posterboy with a Trojan tucked into his skintight jeans. 

Two days ago, Doyoung had broken up with Hyunjin via text. And then, Doyoung did it again, this time in person, probably because their mutual friend Mark informed him that a digital split was a little too harsh. 

Hyunjin pillaged Doyoung’s house first, snatching up a few of his bracelets and one of his workout hoodies. He slid his hands across the beautiful fabrics that lived within their shared walk-in closet. He tore pants and button-ups off of their hangers, watching the lifeless satin float to the floor. He squirted the remainder of their lube over Doyoung’s silk sheets.

And then he left, a hurricane of blond hair and hurt. 

Hyunjin was still that same unnatural disaster in this moment, his limp body slamming into telephone poles as he maneuvered his way back to the shitty studio apartment that Kevin had rented to him. The grim drizzle continued. If he stood still for even a moment, rain would pool in the upturned shell of his collarbone. He didn’t have it in him to pause, not in this state. He was pissed. 

He took his blocky fist and shoved it into a bush. When he pulled his punch back, the dewy leaves grasped at his wrist. It was nice to be touched. He started to cry. Hobbling forward, he used his palm to swipe away a tear. Two of his fingers were coated in shimmery globs of eyeshadow. It was surreal, in the worst way. He had to focus on making forward progress before he dissolved entirely. Staring down at the crumbling asphalt, he thoughtlessly grabbed at what looked like a damp piece of paper, wedged tight in the cracks. He unfolded it - a simple ad, with a phone number at the bottom. And across the top, in a bolder typeface: 

_FILM OPPORTUNITY - LOOKING FOR ACTORS_

Hyunjin could be a movie star. Hyunjin could be anything. 

* * *

Hyunjin had always been more of a pet than a partner to Doyoung. To Doyoung, Hyunjin was something to take care of, to observe: a tan torso leaning over a marble countertop, a mop of blond hair beneath a rainfall showerhead. It wasn’t that Doyoung was a bad boyfriend. They just weren’t compatible; they didn’t challenge each other. 

So Hyunjin would spend days on the minimalist couch in a lush, jewel-toned robe, never even bothering to tie the sash. He’d sprawl out and play Candy Crush for hours or prowl like a jaguar through the house, watching Doyoung type viciously on his bluetooth keyboard. At night, Hyunjin would shed his silk and fuck Doyoung until they shone with sweat. 

Hyunjin wasn’t surprised when they broke up, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t painful. He had to relearn how to wake up alone, relearn how to arrange his limbs on that twin-sized canvas. Relearn how to exist independent of someone. 

After all, it’d been Doyoung who had found him all of his fortuitous gigs: the modeling opportunities, the brand deals, the magazine shoots. People knew who Hyunjin was, tangentially, but there wasn’t a voice behind the lips in the cameras’ viewfinders. A marionette. Now, there was no one to move his limbs, and even worse, there was no one to perform for. 

Did he even exist? Lying on the overstuffed couch in his little apartment, Hyunjin almost dropped his phone on his forehead as he scrolled through his and Doyoung’s old sex tapes. Shot from the side, Doyoung would carefully position his Panasonic on the ornate dresser parallel to the bed, the curtains drawn wide so only their silhouettes were captured in the shot. 

It was beautiful, actually, a physical renaissance. Sheathed in light. 

Hyunjin couldn’t bear to watch one. He clicked out of his gallery and decided to call the number listed on the ad he’d scavenged on his drunk walk home. 

“Hiii,” he drawled, still relatively tipsy. It was only two in the morning. People still answered their phones at two in the morning. Someone picked up on the second ring, so he repeated himself: “hiiiiiiiiiii.” 

“Hello.” The calm voice had an oozing, lilting quality. 

And then the sound morphed. The phone had been passed on to another speaker: “Are you responding to the ad we posted? We’re boyfri - a pair of independent producers looking to create an entry for a local film festival.” 

“Yeah,” Hyunjin giggled, “when do we start?” 

“Oh, um,” the talker backed away, a little distant now: “Minho, he’s in. That was easy.” 

“You think I’m _easy?_ ” Hyunjin liked to be thought of. 

“No, we were just saying that this _shoot_ will be so easy since we have such an excited new actor! We can start tomorrow, does that work for you?” 

Somewhere in the back of his crowded mind, past the plush fantasy of fame, Hyunjin wondered why they hadn’t asked for his name. Or introduced themselves. He had no plans for tomorrow, aside from nursing his inevitable headache and mourning his failed relationship. If he were smart, he’d have grilled his directors: what are your qualifications, will I be getting paid, what is the movie about? 

But Hyunjin wasn’t smart. He was lonely. 

“Yes, that’s perfect, you can - you can just text me the location and I’ll be there tomorrow!” 

Jobless, loveless, and with no family in the area, Hyunjin had no obligations and no restraints, corporeal or otherwise. What he did have, though, was a slouchy beret and a leather messenger bag, so maybe his directors would think he was cultured enough, beautiful enough, to feather an furnish with compliments. 

“Great,” the first person said, having taken the phone back. And then he hung up. 

* * *

The two men touched Hyunjin before they introduced themselves by name. Minho and Jisung. Hyunjin felt it was important that Minho shook his hand, while Jisung gave him a hug. Reading people had never been one of Hyunjin’s strong suits, but he was able to note that Minho had been one to organize this setup in the way he waited for Jisung to open the door to the tiny, one-room warehouse for him. 

There were three seats within the warehouse: two simple black stools and a tall, imposing wooden chair with leather straps. 

“Do you like your throne?” It was a weird joke for Minho to make, but Hyunjin giggled anyway. He’d had a few wine coolers before the two of them picked him up from his apartment. 

His sense of self-preservation was rotting away at an alarming rate. 

Hyunjin was grateful that there were gaps in the warehouse’s ceiling. Sunshine fell through the shafts and lovingly dappled his face. Shadows threw themselves at him, but they missed him each time. It was his gift. 

Jisung offered Hyunjin a consolatory grin as he unpacked the film gear he and Minho had hauled to the desolate location: yes, don’t worry, we’ll begin soon. 

His face looked a little tired, but he mustered the energy to pull his lips up into a ghoulish smile. Jisung seemed to create new expressions from scratch all the time. Hyunjin wasn’t as good at reinventing; his mouth had been slack since they’d arrived at the abandoned building. It had a cold, industrial energy about it, a chilling ambiance that was only interrupted by a single sparrow hovering and chirping somewhere. 

That made Hyunjin feel a bit less alone. He skittishly looked around for the little bird, staring at his surroundings. Jisung’s tripod clattered to the concrete, urging Hyunjin to jerk his head towards his directors. Minho scratched his ass with one hand and used the other to wipe a layer of sweat from his forehead, his fingers coming away clammy, his eyes cast upwards. 

The sparrow chittered again. 

Minho made a noise of exhaustion, and, pulling his palm out of his back pocket, he was suddenly gripping a gun as black as decay. Squinting one eye, Minho shot towards the roof. 

The bird fell like a curtain, its small body striking the floor with surprising force. 

Hyunjin looked straight ahead. The warehouse went silent. 

“Anyway,” Minho started, “all we need you to do is act natural and be beautiful. Shouldn’t be too hard. Sit.” 

Like a show pony, Hyunjin tossed his hair. Carefully, precisely, he lowered himself into the seat and looked expectantly at Minho and Jisung. He tried to peel his eyes away from the gun that glowered from Minho’s hand. Minho dropped his bag and rooted around in it before yanking out an electric razor. “Strap him in,” he ordered, and Jisung abandoned the tripod to begin pulling the soft swaths of leather tight across Hyunjin’s broad chest. 

Hyunjin twitched, his body and face showing burgeoning apprehension. “Settle,” Minho soothed, in the same voice that someone would use to calm an anxious little dog. Jisung slammed Hyunjin’s delicate wrists into the arms of the chair, working quickly to restrain him. Barely struggling against Jisung’s force, Hyunjin allowed himself to be manhandled.

Finding some sort of jagged peace in the roughness. He had no decisions to make here.

That was how he liked to be loved, anyway. 

The buzz of the razor: chainsaw, woodpecker, racecar. 

“Wait, what’re you doing?” Hyunjin’s torso jolted forward, but the straps were fixed tight enough to keep him near-still, cutting into his midsection with precision. Minho had set up his own tripod, casually hitting record before prowling towards Hyunjin. 

The purr of the razor became menacing. 

“No-no-no, don’t shave my head, don’t -” Hyunjin let out a piercing wail when the implement made contact with his head, a lock of blond hair falling down in front of his face. The tuft got stuck in one of the leather straps. 

He was being _sheared_ . “No, _don’t_ , you’re going to make me ugly, stop!” 

“We already started, though… and you’d look much worse with a random bald spot,” Minho advised, planting his palm on Hyunjin’s scalp and beginning to shave the sides. 

“No, I’m going to look fucking _gross_ , I don’t want people to see me like this,” Hyunjin sobbed, his cheeks damp. 

Minho sighed. “That’s too bad. We have to do it if we want the movie to turn out right. If you keep twitching like that, I’m going to knick you and your hair won’t grow back right at all. It’s your choice.” Jisung snickered, walking back to the tripod to check the framing of the shot. 

Jisung licked his lips. “His hair really is pretty. I think the rats will make a nice nest out of it.” 

“Stop it,” he cried. It was clear there was no point to the begging; his directors were insistent. He gave up on groveling. His hair would grow back. He had bucket hats. It wasn’t like he had anyone to impress anymore, Doyoung had left him. And this was method acting, people would understand, people would see his commitment to the role. 

Or something like that. Hyunjin's mouth was wide in vain agony. 

Hyunjin’s pruned hair laid in a lazy halo over his shoulders. When his head was suitably shaven, Jisung quit fiddling with the tripod to pull an electrode out from behind the bulky wooden chair. Smoothing a comforting hand over Hyunjin’s bare scalp, Jisung applied the electrode to the back of his head. 

“Did you know a dentist invented the electric chair?” Jisung asked, running his finger around the sticky perimeter of the electrode. 

Demotivated by Hyunjin’s lack of response, Jisung tried another route: “did you know you’re on camera, fucker?” Jisung backhanded Hyunjin’s pretty face, a jagged hangnail catching on Hyunjin’s cheek. “You got anything to say?” 

“Stop it,” Hyunjin blubbered, a bubble of spit ballooning over his bottom lip. 

“Stop what?” Minho snarked, “you’re already all bald. You look insane. Do you want to leave this warehouse looking like… _that_?” He sounded near-sympathetic as he brushed a few strands of hair off of Hyunjin’s clavicle. “No one would even believe this happened to you. So, suck it up, and finish the job.” 

“Wow, he shaves his legs,” Jisung snorted, “this makes our lives easier.” He slapped two more electrodes on each of Hyunjin’s calves. 

Pulling a coin out of his pocket, Jisung did a quick toss. “Heads or tails.” 

“Heads,” said Minho, petting Hyunjin’s smooth, naked scalp. 

Jisung sighed, immensely disappointed. “You get the honors…” He returned to his spot behind the camera, readjusting the tripod to make sure the framing was ideal. 

“Okay, baby,” Minho soothed, squatting down to make eye contact with Hyunjin, “it’s just fifteen seconds. It’s just a little shock. Not real.” 

Not real. 

“You’re gonna kill me,” Hyunjin bawled, “don’t kill me. Please. I don’t wanna die.”

He screamed but there was no audible doubling, no echo: he was alone. “You’re not gonna die.” Minho backed away, getting his final look at Hyunjin alive: hyperventilating, heaving, hysterical.

Stripped, shorn. 

“Minho, you’re blocking him, can you, like, back out of the shot a little?” Groaning, he followed Jisung’s instructions and prepared himself to deliver the shock. 

He was going to butcher this poor lamb. He was going to use an electric chair that they’d fashioned out of a car battery using Jisung’s rudimentary mechanic skills. He was going to finish the job. 

“Idon’twannadieIdon’twannadie,” Hyunjin was no longer speaking but singing, his voice strung high and tight, his tone desperate. 

Minho shut his eyes and _did it_. Fifteen seconds and Hyunjin’s body was ravaged by 2,000 volts. 

His skin bled, but he was still alive. Sort of. With pained effort, his chest rose and fell a few times, which meant they’d botched it. 

His eyes protruded like those of a startled goldfish. “Get a close up,” Minho urged, shoving Jisung forward. Stumbling, Jisung approached a slumped Hyunjin, whose body was deviled by residual shaking, his skin singed. Somehow, the acrid odor of burnt flesh didn’t stop Jisung from grabbing his own crotch as he clutched the camcorder with his free hand. 

“Do you know how many people are going to jerk off to this footage?” 

Drool crawled from Hyunjin’s slack mouth, his bald head sinking towards his shoulder. 

“This is going to make history,” Minho narrated, “there’s never been something like this made before.” Hyunjin’s solemn, pretty face was twisted up like the bark of an old oak. He was still alive. Apparently. 

Jisung didn’t take his dick out, that’d be gross. He’d do it later, when he and Minho had cleaned up their mess and were melting, high on the couch. They’d rewatch Hyunjin’s death on a sixty inch TV. And they’d watch it again, and again, and again.

They’d fall asleep to it. They’d wake up sticky, with their hands down each other’s pants and a gorgeous boy dead on the screen. 

_They’d_ wake up. 

“We should go,” Minho mused, “I think he’s dead.” 

“Should we, like, do another shock? Check his pulse?” 

“No. We’re done here.” Minho rolled his eyes and bent down to pull a hulking bright-red can of gasoline out of his Costco backpack. He handed it to Jisung, who clumsily balanced the hefty container on his shoulder while tracing the interior of the warehouse, all while sloshing the fluid out over the cap and onto the floor. He jogged a quick lap, and then another, until the gasoline can had been emptied. 

“Good. Let’s get out of here.” The two of them snatched their recording gear and strolled through the doorway. 

On his way out, Jisung lit a cig, took one long drag, and threw it into the warehouse. 

They outran the smoke. They let the fire gnaw through it all. 

* * *

While waiting in line for his oat-milk latte, Doyoung scanned the rack of newspapers that the shop kept available for customers to peruse. One headline in particular stood out:

_‘WAREHOUSE FIRE - ONE DEAD.’_

The text dominated the page, sitting atop the article’s accompanying picture, a grave-dark pile of ash. The barista slid Doyoung’s coffee across the marbled counter, calling his name in a delicate voice, gently pulling him from the photo’s apocalyptic landscape. He thanked her and began to meander through the mess of tables, looking for a place to sit down. 

Doyoung didn’t know why, but he decided to fish his phone from the pocket of his slacks and quickly send a ‘good morning’ text to Hyunjin - nothing risky or embarrassing or flirtatious, just a ‘hi’. In return, he received an automated response: ‘We’re sorry, this phone number is no longer in service’. 

Maybe it was for the best. 

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are always appreciated! 
> 
> feel free to contact me elsewhere:  
> ⚜ [twitter](https://twitter.com/seungshibari)  
> ⚜ [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/seungshibari)


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